Legs
by FearandLoathingXIX
Summary: After Hughes, Hawkeye knows she has to do something for Roy, anything. She hates that her military mind is incapable of offering conventional comfort, but, maybe there is one thing she can do. Royai, somewhat fluffy.


My first piece of FMA fanfiction, but I had this idea after episode 25 and simply could not let it be, especially when I couldn't find any equivalents. I hope it's all right.

Spoilers up to episode 25. I don't own FMA or any of its characters.

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She doesn't know what to do.

She doesn't know what to say.

What can she tell him?

Riza Hawkeye's speciality – contrary to popular belief – is not firearms. It is Roy Mustang.

She keeps a tally of the number of times she has stopped him rushing head-first into his own death, which sits comfortably at twenty five, and only she knows how to talk him up, beat him down, cut him to pieces with a few well placed words _and _take Black Hayate out for a walk (he loves him more than her anyway).

But today she has failed; today she is caught out. She is frozen.

Maes Hughes was there for Roy long before she ever knew him, and she had foolishly assumed the now-deceased General Brigadier would always be around. The two of them pushing Roy up to the top _together_, hiding the whiskey bottles on his lows – so he wouldn't be discharged for drunkenness – and and the heavy-handed sarcasm that served to keep him from floating off the planet on his gibberish highs. There is also a certain amount of punching, kicking, slide-tackling or whatever else is required to stop him getting himself killed when he tried to throw himself recklessly into events involved, and she, more than Hughes, took on _that _role.

But it isn't an easy job.

It isn't going to be any easier alone.

She has never known Roy to cry _sober _before; of course everyone had to deal with finding a broken heap of a drunkard screaming into his tear-soaked hands when his ghosts wouldn't leave him alone, even Fullmetal. However, she has never heard him cry like this.

It is almost impossible to tell, except for the cracking of his voice as he tries to string one word in after another. She can only say 'yes' 'no' and 'I'm sorry'. Her mind is blank; she's in the middle of a crisis without any ammo, and it frightens her more than she cares to admit.

She _knows_ he will be drinking tonight, and she _knows_ he will be worse than he's ever been before, but she is aware that it would not be proper for her to insist on accompanying him home. There are rules to be observed.

What can she _do?_

What can she_ say?_

She hears him announcing that he _will_ be at his desk tomorrow, and her heart screams at her to _do something_. She can't leave it like this; there is no point in _being _Mustang's right-hand woman if she can't do this one simple thing.

But soft words, heads or hearts do not a military woman make, and she feels ashamed of her own coldness as they part ways that day.

././.

She tosses and turns later that night, trying to think of _something _she can do for him. Anything. Anything at all. There has to be _one thing _she is capable of doing to make...

It's about three am when she has her epiphany; she has been crying in her sleep over Hughes, and she remembers upon waking a particular incident where she wanted quite savagely to put a bullet through his _and _Roy's heads. But it gives her an idea. She winces a little and gets up; only five more hours until she has to be at work, so she will have to move fast.

She was never very good at sewing, but she is sure that a simple alteration shouldn't be too hard.

Several pricked fingers and some heavy cursing later, she wholly retracts that assumption. However, she does not stop; it's not much, but it is _something_, and she will not give up on it.

She gets to sleep at about five, snatching a few hours rest as her finished project lies neatly on her dresser; she's tried it on, but she has no idea how it will look in the light.

It looks awful. Shabby, poorly stitched, crooked-hemmed and obvious to anyone who knew anything about needlework to be the attempts of a pure amateur, but she does not believe too many seamstresses to spend too much time in military buildings. It will do.

She feels self-conscious and awkward as she walks into work. The air seems colder than normal, or perhaps it is simply because she is not used to it passing so freely over her skin, and she can hear the murmurs and whispers following behind her; words like 'grief-stricken' and 'hysterical' are mentioned, but she refuses to rise to it. This is not for _their _benefit.

"Good Morning, Colonel," she says as she enters the office, the same as always. She is surprised to see him behind his desk, he obviously hasn't done any work, but his presence here is still a cause for concern.

He doesn't look up at first, not until she walks stiffly over to the windows to open the blinds. He notices _then_, flicking a glance towards her as she passes him, which escalates into a full-blown stare lasting more than a minute in length.

Roy thought he would never see the day when Riza Hawkeye turned up to work in a miniskirt.

She has surprisingly nice legs.

Roy had been sure, one hundred percent, absolutely, no doubt in his mind _whatsoever _sure that there was nothing that could lift his mood this day. It is still too soon. _Next year _is too soon. The legs have been kicked from underneath him, and he is only turning up to work because he suspects he will kill himself if he stayed at home.

But at the sight of Hawkeye in a _ridiculously _short miniskirt, the memory of a smile crosses his face. He almost _laughs_.

"Good morning, Hawkeye," he says dryly, and as she walks toward him he does not cover up where he is looking.

"Are you feeling better today, Sir?" she asks; one hip popped and a bandaged hand resting on the curve of her waist. She does not stand like this in trousers, but the effects the skirt and accompanying heeled shoes have had on her posture are already showing through.

He'd almost forgotten she _had _legs, but he finds it hard to think about anything else for a minute or so.

"Uh...um..." He knows there isn't anything that can change Maes fate, and there _sure as hell _isn't anything that can bring him back, but this is so pointlessly _stupid, _but at the same time meaningful – because of course it reminds him of his goal to become Fuhrer and how letting go of that would mean Hughes died for nothing – that he has to say, "Yes, _Riza_... a little."

The most surprising thing is he actually means it, and he is, not for the first time, thankful for the presence of Riza Hawkeye in his life.

Roy is sure that he hears Hughes' voice for a moment, echoing somewhere in his ear, as if he were speaking through a _very _long-distance telephone.

_'Get yourself a wife, Roy...'_

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First FMA fanfic, first Royai, leave a review to let me know how you think it holds up?


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